Poetry, for me, is about using words rhythmic nature to create a mind set. It is about playing with structure to breakthrough language's limits. Like life, you got to use reality's tools to imagine anything beyond it.
Here are some of my poems.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

The Wind.

Every city has a cemetery,towns have 'em too.

The cemetery is flat landsurrounded by gates,and dead bonesunsurrounded.

The wind flies freelyabove the deadUncaptured, unconfined,Untrapped.

Back in the cityThe wind struggles throughthe walls and gatesof societies fruit.The wind has to fightuntil it reaches the nostrilsof Adam and Everunning up a stair caseof a sky scrapping tower.

In the city,the wind bangs and roars.Unlike the cemetery,where it quietly floatsabove those who let the wind out.

The wind hoversabove the cemetery's field.For there amongst the deadthe secret is toldthat the night is oldAnd the wind holds its surprisefor those that riseat the early hours of the dayto the crying sound of the windswimming through the obstacles ofcivilization.Wrapping towersas it hugs the glassthat just kissed the woodof the windowsill.

The wind runs through the narrow alleysthat barely have room for two.And the holes in the wallslet the wind run throughand chill the bones of a childas the wind whistles it a lullabyof free flying windsunder blue skies.

Brick and clothall keep the wind out.Leaving it to wiggle the young treeswhose leaves fallinto the hands of troubled windswho have traveled through cities and walls,choked by the scrapers in the sky.

Back in the cemeterythe wind flies freelyamidst those who lye in sandeasily blown by the wind.The wind doesn't whistle or hymnand there is no glass to hug and kiss.Just space for wind and wind for spaceabove a sheet of soilhiding those who have become like windthemselves.